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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24291952">Home</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/brussylover/pseuds/brussylover'>brussylover</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Deer Hunter (1978)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I think by default there's triggering themes, I'm not sure yet, M/M, More angst, Nobody's reading this aside from amanda anyway so..., PTSD obviously, Slow Burn, gay (thumbs down emoji), smut?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:08:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,244</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24291952</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/brussylover/pseuds/brussylover</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been four months since Michael had dragged Nicky out of that crowded, humid bar.</p><p>Nicky's here with him, but more often than not he seems far away. Mike wants to bring him home, to the mountains and the trees and the crisp morning air; but sometimes it's as if they're back at that roulette table, with guns against their heads.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Nikanor "Nick" Chevotarevich/Michael "Mike" Vronsky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For Amanda &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sometimes home was home. Cold mornings and the clouds over the mountain. pine trees for miles and miles. His boots making good grip on the rocks, woollen hat pulled over his ears. it was real, it was his, and the gun in his hand was nothing more than a hunting rifle. Yet still, some morning’s he’d wake up and swear he felt smoke filling his lungs, and blood in his mouth. Sometimes he had no home at all. When the light shifted, and the tree’s and mountains weren’t his anymore. The sharp scent of pine was gone, and he was back in the jungle.</p><p>He snaps himself out of it, tightening his grip around his rifle, setting it steady on a rock. Michael had his eye on a buck, watching it rear its long head, strong neck twisting, alert. He makes aim, stern determination. He’d make it one shot, despite his shaking hands.</p><p>Nicky was more than likely sound asleep still, shrouded under the heavy pile of blankets Michael had thrown over him before leaving earlier that morning.</p><p> </p><p>If Nicky got night terrors, Michael didn’t know about them. He slept like he wasn’t there at all, silent as anyone could be. Michael had to listen real carefully to catch the soft hum of his breathing. However things were for Nick, sleeping must have been better than the alternative, because he sure did a lot of it. He slept more than any man with his head screwed on right should; they stood far apart in that sense. Michael was lucky to get four uninterrupted hours without being jolted awake by a passing thought... that he was back there, trapped there, that he was never coming home. He’d bury his face into his pillow, move his hand over his soft sheets, his thick mattress, until he remembered where he was. Until he remembered he was home. When he was awake things were easier, he could get a grip over himself, steady his mind a little.</p><p>Maybe sleep was peaceful for Nick, maybe his brain cleared out for those few moments and let him rest, Gods knew Nicky needed it. For the short hours he was awake, he’d look like hell had struck him down with the plague. Heavy bags under his eyes, pale as a ghost. Maybe Nicky did sleep in silence, but night terrors were a given for most all troubled men, even the big dogs.  </p><p>There had been Tommy, with a face like a bulldog and skin pulled tight over hard muscle. Nice enough man, never said more than a few words, nobody dared test him, just in case he was a rubber band waiting to snap. Even back then, Michael had run on a few winks of sleep, stayed awake through the night writing in the small bedraggled journal he kept in his front pocket. Two AM would approach, and there Tommy was, head buried into his pillow, wailing in the way a tortured man would, soaking his sheets in sweat.</p><p>Even the big dogs got night terrors. Even the big dogs screamed. But not Nicky.</p><p> </p><p>Four months then, since Michael had dragged Nicky out of that crowded, humid bar.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“One shot.” Nicky’s hand on his, fingers twisting around the gun.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“One shot. One shot.” Michael’s fastening his grip on the gun, he doesn’t want to hand it over, but Nicky’s laughing at him, smiling, and Michael’s smiling back. He’s gunna bring him home. Just one shot. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Nicky’s bringing the gun to his head. Michael’s watching and things go slow. Nick keeps his smile, and with the barrel against his head, he presses his finger down on the trigger, no hesitation. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Michael hears a click, and it’s over. Nicky’s there, his friend, sat in front of him. Alive. He’s bringing him home. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Some days Nicky said one or two short words, other days he said nothing at all. Michael cooked for him, cleaned for him, even bathed him. All the while he’d talk about family, about the friends who’d missed him, Stanley and Linda who’d been round a fair few times. He’d talk about meaningless things, like a movie or music; about food or sport or even girls; Nicky just stared, at him if he was lucky, at the wall mostly.  </p><p>Michael was level headed, more than any man in his situation should be, but cleaning up after your friend who was little more than a breathing ornament, unresponsive in every sense of the word, would drag down any man. When things got rough, he’d allow himself one short moment to wonder, what things would be like now if he’d watched his friend die, or if he’d never found him at all. His conclusion was always the same. Nicky was a part of him, permanently etched into his life, whether he wanted him there or not, and he did want him… Didn’t make it any easier.</p><p>“Pack your things.” There’s a pot of soup boiling on the stove, and Michael’s hanging their freshly washed clothes on the rack. It had been another silent day, besides the quiet hum of frank Sinatra on their struggling old record player. Nicky shifts in his place on the couch, tilting his head slightly towards Michael, who smiles quietly to himself. “Pack your things, we’re leaving tomorrow morning.”</p><p>“Leaving?” Nicky’s first word of the day.</p><p>“Goin’ up mountain. The weathers clearing up, hunting weather.” He’d promised Nicky home, but they hadn’t seen it yet, not really. Home had never been the townhouse; it was the place he’d always gone back to in his mind, when things had been at their hardest… Nicky and Michael, alone on the mountain.</p><p> </p><p>Michael watches the deer buckle over, huffing out a final breath. One shot.</p><p>It's a heavy load to lug down on his own, and he has a crook in his neck when he comes through the cabin's front door, slipping off his gloves. Nicky’s awake, in fact he’s dragged his sickly self to the kitchen sink, dish cloth in hand, he’s adding a soaking plate to a pile of cleaned dishes. Michael’s not sure if he’s dreaming.</p><p>“Dishes?” It’s all he can muster up, such a simple thing rendering him speechless. Nicky doesn’t turn around, but he’s stilled, leaning his weight on the sink.</p><p>“Why did you bring me here?” Nick’s croaking like he’s forgotten how to speak.</p><p>“Because I like hunting. Because I like hunting with my partner! My aim’s better when you’re with me Nick. You’re like my lucky rabbit’s foot or sum’n.”</p><p>“I don’t know why you want me here.” Nicky’s dunking a glass into the water.</p><p>“Do I need to repeat myself? You know, you should talk to me more…”</p><p>The glass slips from Nicky’s hand, shattering on the ground. Michael regrets his own heavy sigh as it leaves him. Nicky’s fixed in his place.</p><p>“Just tell me.”</p><p>“Tell you what? Hey, come on just… sit down will you? You’re stressing yourself out, you’re stressing me out for Christ’s sake.”</p><p>“You want me to talk to you. Ok, I’m talking to you, so listen. Why did you bring me here, why do you want me here?.. You coulda had a good life without me Michael. An easier life.” Nicky’s turned his head, staring now at Mike’s shoes. Glass shards surround Nicky’s bare feet. Mike takes a careful step closer.</p><p>“You think I care about that? Who am I Nicky? You know who I am? You remember?.. Do you remember Nick? Back before everything, after Stevie’s wedding, you remember that? You told me, you made me promise to not leave you over there, <em>do you remember that? </em>You know, maybe you’re different now, maybe you’ve changed, maybe you’re fucked up beyond repair, I don’t fucking know… But I made my best friend a promise. I made him a promise that I’d bring him home, so I did that, and I’m doing that! And maybe that friend is gone… But I’m gunna hold onto whatever hope I can muster that he’s in there. Just… if you’d just let me have that Nicky.” Mike’s not gunna cry, he’s gunna hold himself together because he’s angry. Angry at himself, angry at Nicky, angry at the world, at his country, at everything and everyone that sent them over there, that tore them apart and brought them back together, but no longer whole. Nicky looks up, meeting his gaze, glassy eyed angel.</p><p>“That friend is gone.” Nicky says.</p><p><em>‘Liar’  </em>Mike thinks.<em> ‘If he’s gone then why are you crying?’</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>~</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Soldiers would do near anything for a high. Not the druggie type of high, the off your head, head in the clouds type high, drugs were near impossible to come by out here. There were countless ways to space out. A lot of them had taken to jerking off through the entirety of whatever free time they had, and often times that was a lot. Nicky, to his own dismay, had the screwed up faces of a dozen men on the verge of orgasm etched into his mind… But not Mike’s. Mike slept across from him, though he didn’t sleep often it seemed. He’d never seen Mike go there, not that he’d been looking out for it. Most of the time he was scribbling in that little journal he kept in his front pocket. Often, he’d go to sleep watching Mike, writing away. How Mike had so much to say to that little book he didn’t know.</p><p>Despite all the shit, Mike was still the same level headed bastard he’d been back in Clairton, or at least he appeared to be. Mike could be the life of the party if needs be, but mostly he had a quiet genius about him, he was smarter than most of the flakes back home. A lot of the time, when Mike spoke, Nicky thought it ought to be shoved between a set of quotation marks and slapped onto some academic paper; not that he knew what a lot of it meant. Nicky wasn’t like that, he was a small town boy through and through. Mike had always been bigger than Clairton, should be teaching at some university somewhere… But Nicky had never told him that. He should have, he had meant to numerous times, but big city Mike would mean packing up his bags and leaving Nicky behind. Maybe he was selfish. Nicky tried not to think about it too much.</p><p>Mike was a lecturer at heart, but mostly he kept that to himself. That was, of course, until he had enough drink in him. Drunk Mike was mean and paranoid, as well as smart and insightful and as caring as any person could be, all the while still being a flaming idiot. Drunk Mike was a delirious, twisted mess, and Nicky missed him when he wasn’t around.</p><p>“At least we’re alive. They love saying that don’t they? At least you’re alive! At least you came out with all your limbs, doesn’t matter if you’re kicking and screaming, thank god you have the body parts to kick and scream with. At least you didn’t get blown to pieces, or shot in the head, or stomach, or leg even. At least you’re <em>alive. </em>Well, what good is it? At least I’m alive, well what is that worth anymore? What good does life do me?” Too much for most men at 1am, the rest of the guys had tuned Mike out around an hour before, but Mike had kept on, sat on the side of his bed, bottle in hand, and Nicky had stayed listening, lying on his own bed, staring up at the ceiling.</p><p>“But we’re not out yet.” Nicky points out, grinning to himself.</p><p>“Yeah well… we’re gunna get out Nick, I know that! You know how I know that Nicky? Huh?” Mike’s stood from his bed, taking long strides towards him. He kneels in front of Nicky’s bed, resting his chin on his hands. “Because I know things, that’s how. I know things, and I know this. We’re gunna get out of here, when it’s all over, and we’re gunna go home and grow old together, just you and me Nicky.” Mike’s taken hold of Nick’s wrist, shaking it, reassuring.</p><p>“I’m not sure if I believe that Mike.”</p><p>“Neither am I. But it’s a comforting thought, so why not believe it for the time being?”</p><p>Mike hadn’t let go of Nicky’s wrist for what had felt like an eternity. And somewhere in that age, buried under years of guilt and self-contempt, he’d found himself feeling it. Feeling without any constraint.</p><p>Mike was asleep, still leant against his bed, hand still gripping softly around his wrist. In the smallest voice he could muster, with more breath that words, Nicky made his admission.</p><p>“I love you Mike. Don’t hate me. I love you.”</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>Something in Nicky had switched. The endless hours of sleep had left, only to be replaced with house work. He'd scrubbed the decade’s worth of caked on rust away from the pots and pans, till you could catch your reflection in passing. He cooked, and swept and did the laundry, and yet still he hardly spoke a word. They'd been up mountain a week. Each day Mike would leave to hunt with a feeling of guilt churning in his stomach. </p><p>
  <em>‘come with me Nick. The weathers right.’ </em>
</p><p>Same question every morning, met with the same short answer from Nicky.</p><p>‘<em>No thanks.’</em></p><p>Each morning he'd leave, hunt alone, and return to a cabin that had no business being this spotless. </p><p>"Nicky... You know... This is a boy's cabin, we come here to hunt, it's not exactly supposed to be orderly. I appreciate all this, but rugged is... rugged is good." Nicky peers at him with mousey eyes for a moment, before going back to scrubbing at a plate. Mike decides he misses the sleeping. Scratching aimlessly at his neck, he takes a beer from the fridge, sighing heavy, not caring if Nicky hears. He'd strayed away from alcohol for the moment, for his own sake as much as Nicky's. No more. He pops the cap, choking on his own spit as the drink sprays in a fountain from the bottle neck, soaking his shirt. </p><p>"Take off your shirt, I'll deal with it after I'm done with these." Nicky's voice is monotone as ever. </p><p>"What are you doing? What is this huh? Are you my housewife now?" </p><p>"Would you like me to be?" It’s genuine in tone, yet still Mike feels mocked.</p><p>"Jesus Christ. You're gunna make me crazy you know that Nick? No. No I would not like you to be. You sound like a trained fucking dog. Just... be yourself, not whatever the fuck this is." </p><p>Nicky cracks a laugh, grinning from ear to ear in a potent, bitter way. "Be myself?"</p><p>"Yeah." Mike's the dumb one here, the clueless one, the ignorant. He knows it. He doesn’t care. Nicky's shaking his head, turning back to his pile of dishes. </p><p>"I like this. I like doing this." There's a sweetness to Nicky's voice that hangs in the air, enough to make Mike swear he's getting tooth rot. Nicky's like a maid, a dream to some he's sure, he'd probably do anything he asked. ‘Yes sir. No sir. What more can I do for you sir’.</p><p>It’s making Mike sick.</p><p>“Aren’t you angry at them Nicky?” Mike coughs up his words as if they’d been stuck in his throat for days. </p><p>“Angry at who?”</p><p>“I don’t know Nick. Somebody, anybody, me even! You can’t not be angry at anybody, God knows I’m fuming most always. Just be angry, or sad. Something Nick, I just… I can’t keep doing this.” Mike never knew if Nicky was paying him any mind. He should stop harassing him, let him wallow in whatever hell he was feeling, but his silent suffering had become so potent, even in his new productivity, Mike was sure he had no chance of adding to his friends misery. So getting him angry was, he concluded, his only option.</p><p>Mike grabbed a dirty plate off the bench, and after a moment of self-doubt, of which he quickly discarded, threw it hard onto the kitchen floor. Nicky flinched, for once notably confused.</p><p>“clean it up.” Mike taunted, pointing at the smashed pieces of ceramic. After a moment, Nicky was kneeling down, carefully reaching for the pieces. Mike put a foot forward, stopping him in his tracks. “What are you doing?”</p><p>“Cleaning.”</p><p>“Why? Why would you do that? Get angry at me for God’s sake.” Mike’s wide eyed, he’s shouting down at Nick, and lord knows what for. Voice hostile and yet pleading all the same.</p><p>“I don’t want to. Why do you want that?” There was a melody to Nick’s voice, one that had been lost, as if the shock had jolted some life back into him.</p><p>“I don’t know. I don’t know just… something, just give me something.”</p><p>With a huff, Nick stood up, and Michael takes another plate off the bench, handing it over.</p><p>“Throw it at the wall, don’t think about It just do it. Hard as you can ok?” Mike steps back.</p><p>“why?”</p><p>“doesn’t matter. Don’t think about me… or maybe do. Think the wall's me, you’re throwing the plate at me because I’m an asshole ok? I’ve pissed you off, taken you places you don’t wanna go, I won’t leave you alone right? So that’s me over there, just throw the plate Nick.”</p><p>Mike hardly has time to register the throw before the plate is crashing against the wall, shattering into tiny pieces, scattered across the carpet. Mike cracks a surprised smile, huffing out a laugh.</p><p>“You hate me that much?”</p><p>“I guess I do.” Nicky’s actually smiling, faint as it may be.</p><p>“Hey now… I think I might need to keep one eye open from now on, you’ve got me a little scared Nicky you know that. I mean, I know I piss you off but that’s… that’s something else.” Mike’s grinning from ear to ear, hands on his hips, an ironic feeling of ease washing over him. Until he’s looking over at Nicky, at his friend shaking in his spot, looking down at his own trembling hands.</p><p>“Nicky, hey… No, don’t freak out. I didn’t mean ta…” Mike’s crossed the room, holding Nicky steady by his shoulders. “You don’t freak out on me you understand. You don’t go overthinking things, you just talk to me.” Mike’s cupping Nicky’s face in his hands, shaking his head slightly. After a brief silence, Nicky breaks into a soft smile.</p><p>“It’s adrenaline Mike… Just adrenaline.”</p><p>Mike let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. He ruffles Nicky’s hair, trying to ignore the sudden, foreign intimacy in what would have once been a friendly gesture. “You haven’t called me Mike since...” He trails off. Nick’s watching him, looking him in the eye intently, and mike’s tuned into the soft hum of his breathing. “Do you really hate me?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Nick’s lying. He makes it obvious with his eyes. Mike’s stuck on a thought, how close they are, and for a moment he swears he’s leaning in. What for? He doesn’t let himself know.</p><p> Before he had a chance to overthink things, Nicky’s stepping away. With a knot in his stomach like the crook in his neck, Mike’s looking down at the plate, in scattered pieces across the carpet. If he was the wall, was Nicky the plate?</p><p>~</p><p>There was a theory amongst the soldiers in his troupe.</p><p>“<em>If you find yourself on the cusp of death, that one person you think of, that one person that comes to mind… that’s your soul speaking to you, that’s the person who means the most.” </em></p><p>For most of them it was the same. A child for those who had one, a mother for those who didn’t. Some had a wife back home, one they loved enough, but Mike…  </p><p>War was a near death experience in itself, but to have death hold out its arm to you, beckon you to join it. Mike had only felt that foreboding taunt three times.                                                                                                                   </p><p>The first time, he and Nicky had been caught on a run. Hit with a string of bullets, most of them a near miss, they’d managed to escape with their lives and bodies still intact. Head swimming, like a druggie in withdrawal, like he was sweating his own life out of him, his mind  had cleared. The world had slowed, and Mike waited, he wanted to know. Who? No answer, or not one he could pull anything from. He saw nobody, nothing, his mind vacant and hollow, as if there was nobody in the world he truly loved. He’d swum in guilt, trying to think of a face, but nothing came to mind. Mike opened his eyes, consciousness returning. Nicky was standing over him, hand outstretched. After a moment, Mike took it in his own.</p><p>The second time, that time in the jungle, sitting at the roulette table, pressing the gun hard against his own head. He’d taken a deep breath, laughing through it, all the while he could have sworn his soul was falling away from him, watching the scene play from outside his own body. His mind hadn’t gone dark then, he’d just kept looking forward, looking at Nicky, reassuring him with his eyes that everything was going to be ok, everything would be over soon and they’d be home. He’d stayed in place, ever present, and with his eye’s still on Nicky, he’d pulled the trigger.</p><p>The third time, he’d been alone. Flu had hit him in the night, his body shutting down, curled into himself on a thin mattress, soaked through with sweat. A short burst of sickness, one he’d sweated out in mere hours, but for a moment he’d been sure he was going to die. He hadn’t seen Nicky since they’d been parted, chasing down that car, his friend never turning back to see him. Mike gripped at the pillow, his breathing was shallow and he swore he was coughing up blood. He’d squeezed his eyes shut, praying for sleep. Then it had come, that familiar rush to his brain, wiping out everything in its path, leaving him open, his mind blank. He’d accepted it since the first time, maybe it was meant to be that way, maybe he simply didn’t love anybody quite enough. Maybe. His mind had stopped spinning then, and suddenly he could see. He could see home, the mountains, and the tree’s, and the crystal lakes. He could see his rifle sat beside him, feel the chill against his cheeks. And there, sat across from him, carving at a chunk of wood with a small pocket knife, sat Nicky.</p><p> </p><p>Michael hated liars, hated everything they stood for, or more so what little. He despised con men and deception artists, men who lied to see their way. His grip on his truth kept him steady and strong… and yet still, Mike was a liar.</p><p>Sometimes it was the small things, short passing moments, shared breath, each other’s warmth. Michael’s hand would brush lightly against nick’s, only for a moment, and there would be a shiver up his spine. But he was a touch starved veteran, had hardly spoken to a woman in months, it was natural, meant nothing.</p><p>But other times he found his mind wondering to shameful places, enough to make him sick with guilt. He wanted to believe it the wars doing, that it had broken his mind, made him desperate for any sense of human intimacy, but the war had not been the start of it. Maybe he’d stared at Nicky for too long, his eyes lingering on his lips for a daring moment, wondering if they were soft, wondering…</p><p> Mike wanted to see them, to feel them, to taste them. He wanted, but he couldn't have, so instead, he looked. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Cherry Red</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Once again, this goes out to amanda and all my other besties 😏</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mike often wondered if there was a place for them. Somewhere miles away, with mornings of cool, crisp air that lays a soft hand on their exposed skin, until they’d pull the other closer, the warmth filling the spaces, at home in each other’s arms. Maybe they were yet to find that place, or maybe that place was up in the mountain. In the hunting cottage, unbothered by the busy world around them, none the wiser to the news and its gun’s and its bomb’s and war. They’d throw out the radio and TV, live only with records, and books and make believe that there was no other place in the world but theirs. Mike and Nicky’s. Maybe there was a place for them, but that place was not here.</p><p>He felt the shudder of another grenade going off, the ground beneath him quivering under his boots. Mikes backed himself into a bush away from the action, pushing further into the leaves hoping maybe he’ll somehow disappear into a secret world through the branches. He didn’t consider himself a coward. Cowards had no sense of willpower, nor a steady handle over things. He’d been called the <em>quiet brooding </em>type before, more often than not by those that had a lot to say, but nothing of substance. His father’s voice often played in his head, over and over like a broken record. <em>“If he was to speak, he must be sure of his words, so that he may keep his chin high.”</em> That was the mark of a strong man, a decent man, and a decent man he was, he’d never doubted that. But a decent man wasn’t necessarily a strong man, and strong men didn’t cower behind bushes with their ears ringing from distant gunfire. A firm grip around his gun with whitening knuckles, he wonders with a flood of guilt if his hands are shaking. He doesn’t dare look down to check.</p><p>And with thoughts returning of the world away with a cottage on the mountain all to them self, he finds himself turning a question over in his head. Why is it always Nicky? Nicky that would come to mind, whenever stakes were high and nerves on edge. Nicky who would take his hand and pull him further into a feeling that he couldn’t quite explain let alone understand. The Nicky in his mind was much like Nicky in the flesh, but open where Nicky was closed. The Nicky in his mind would stand just that bit closer, hug him just that bit tighter, let his touch linger just that moment longer, fingertips brushing against his arm, hot breath against his neck.</p><p>A life or death moment. Now was not the time to let his thoughts stray to… whatever this was. He should be in the action beside his brothers, alert for his country, but yet his eyes lingered for a moment to a lake amongst the tree’s, that glistened in the light. He found himself wanting to tear his heavy gear away from him till he was stripped clean, ready to plunge into the waters. He felt dirty, he was dirty, it caked his skin and no matter how hard he scrubbed each night it never washed away, but the dirt had been there far longer than the war. The guilty knot in his stomach had festered and blossomed to more than just guilt, but sorrow and misery and fear all wrapped in a neat pastel.</p><p>Those thoughts lingered as a constant hum, always plaguing him. Repetitive, tedious, a song stuck on loop. Maybe they could help them, if he’d let them be as they were, perhaps they’d even be of some comfort. If it was Linda, or some other pretty girl from back home then maybe it would be so. But Nicky was not some girl from back home. Nicky was like a brother, yet not like a brother at all, familiar and tender and the cause of a yearning that brought very little comfort. He was the dirt under his skin. The knot in his stomach and the lump in his throat.  No matter how much he tried to wash or scratch it away, he never left.</p><p>Sometimes Mike was a coward, but only ever for a moment, until he was Mike again. He relaxed his grip on his gun and readied himself for action.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>These days were cherry red.</p><p> </p><p>A sweetness growing with every passing moment, as Nick would open himself more, in gestures as small as a passing glance, or a few extra words. Mike puts a hand on Nick’s shoulder and Nick doesn’t flinch. He smiles, warm and free, and Mike feels like the war is worlds away, though Nicky’s hand resting in his lap still tremors.</p><p>But Nicky changes, like a heavy storm clouding over a sunny day, the brightness dims and Nicky goes back to silence, sleeping for hours, unresponsive, burrowed under his blankets.</p><p>Mike will have to return to work soon, he can’t be gone forever, but his life away from Nicky means little to him now. He hunts only in the early mornings, returning to spend the day with Nicky, even if it means being present while he sleeps. On Monday Nicky slouches; weighed down by whatever sorrow plagues him; but on Wednesday he wakes a sprightly bird. Mike wakes to breakfast and even a smile. Nicky reads by the window and Mike watches him intently, wanting to bottle the moment.</p><p>But even the sweetness has its sour edge. Something Mike had buried deep is bubbling to the surface. Burning in his throat and threatening to spill from his mouth. He and Nicky sat together under the late afternoon sun. Nicky curled into the corner of the sofa, eyes closed, stretching he lets out a soft groan, and a small switch inside mike’s mind flicks on. Mike doesn’t understand himself. Doesn’t know what he’s feeling or why he’s feeling it, but the hairs on his arms stand, and something swims at the pit of his stomach, or perhaps lower. He’s sure his face is red.</p><p>He can’t be around Nicky then. Every small movement, light touch, even the site of Nicky laid out across the couch drives him up the wall. Mike’s irritation has centered itself on a small patch of his forearm. Mike itches it raw, often tearing the skin. After enough time his limit is breached. He collects his gear and leaves with nothing but a small “going hunting” before closing the door behind him. Perhaps a little too harshly.</p><p> </p><p>Nicky still won’t hunt with him. Mike hasn’t asked why.</p><p> </p><p>Mike sits by a lake, a favourite spot of his, since his father would take him hunting as a child. It’s almost fantastical, the water clean and glistening. He lingers his palm on the surface. Ice cold.</p><p>A deer emerges from amongst the trees. Mike is quick, reaching for his gun, holding it up, ready to aim. The deer sees him. It’s young, and unafraid. It doesn’t recognise man or gun, instead walking up to the lake, bending for a drink. Mike laughs despite himself. Less people hunt here now since the war he supposes, the deer left to live in peace.</p><p>Mike puts down his gun.</p><p>When Mike returns it’s dark. Nicky’s sat at the table; he looks up at mike when he enters with eyes much like the deer.</p><p> </p><p>“Mike.” He says, no more than a whisper.</p><p> </p><p>“Nicky.” Mike replies.</p><p> </p><p>The hairs on his arms stand up again; but he’ll sleep it off.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>Mike makes good work of convincing himself it's his fault when Nicky doesn't speak for the next few days, let alone leave his room. He stands with his head against Nick's door, hand held in a fist. He's sure now. Sure that nothing he does will truly make this better, but something claws at him and tells him that despite it all, he wants to try.</p><p>He hates reminiscing. Reminiscing isn't for soldiers who's war wounds can't be washed away. It makes him sick to remember, but he can't help but see him in his mind. Nicky smiling, dancing, laughing at the bar with little fear of where life was taking them. He would give his life to bring that Nicky back. He'll try, even if it takes him several drinks to get there. He's drunk enough to be lightly fogged over, but not enough to lose himself. He knocks softly on the door, not expecting an answer, and with a short puff of breath he enters. He's nervous, tells himself he doesn't know why. </p><p>It's dark, with the curtains drawn. He can barely see Nicky, only a vague shape, a lump under the blankets. Mike plants himself softly at the edge of the bed, and gently rests a hand on Nicky's head, brushing the thick strands of hair off of his face. Perhaps it's the safety of a dark room that leaves him feeling braver than usual. Nicky doesn't open his eyes, but he's awake, he breathes a certain way when he's pretending to sleep. </p><p>“If you want me to leave I will.”</p><p>Nicky doesn’t reply. Mike smiles softly, though perhaps he shouldn’t. </p><p>"You don't have to be afraid of me you know?" Mike doesn't mean to choke on his words, but they come out strained, as if he's holding back. The tight feeling in his throat expands; he swallows, attempting to wash it away, breathing out heavily, hoping that maybe it will calm his nerves. It doesn't. "I'm not going anywhere... I'll stay for as long as you need me... or want me. I know you want to push me away, I know it's easier being alone, I know that... you think I don't know that? You don't wanna rely on anyone but yourself, you're not supposed to because you can't right? It's in our nature Nick... people like you and me. I don't have some piece of paper, or some long fucking word to explain what's wrong with us or what to do about it, but i know that all the pushing away in the world won't stop the fact that you're lonely. I'm not gonna scoop you into my arms and tell you everything's gonna be ok because i can't tell you that... but <em>we'll</em> be ok... together... ok Nick? please?" The hatch had been opened, and it spills out of him as if he's been holding it in for years... and he has, like a balloon slowly expanding, constantly on the verge of bursting. It's freeing, though it feels like falling without knowing if he'll ever land. He catches himself regretting every word, but never falters, weaving the words together and wrapping them around Nicky like bandages. he doesn't know when he'd taken a hold of Nicky's arm, but his skin is warm under his hand. The touch is hardly there, as though Nick is glass, and the already shattered shards will break some more if he isn't gentle. He wants to piece them back together, like a puzzle, but he can't solve Nicky. The pieces don't fit anymore, and for the first time, Mike realises that it doesn't matter.</p><p>He looks up at Nicky, who's eyes are open now, misted over. When he stands he feels Nicky's hand tug lightly on his shirt, and his anxiety lifts away. Finally it spills out of him with ease. </p><p>"I love you Nicky." </p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>When Mike returns to the room an hour later, a glass of water in one hand, bowl of soup in the other, he assumes Nicky's asleep, facing away from him. He sits the food on the bedside table, about to leave when he hears a soft, incoherent voice.</p><p>"What's that mumbles? You gotta speak up a little."</p><p>"You shouldn't." Nick croaks.</p><p>"Shouldn't what?"</p><p>"Love me."</p><p>Mikes stomach drops, guilt lingering on his skin. For all the times he'd been distant, detached, irritated. For barging out on Nicky and never explaining why. He regrets it all.</p><p>"You need space." Is all he can bring himself to say. "I understand, it's ok."</p><p>He's as broken and unfixable as Nicky is, and with it he's finally sure, that he is, hopelessly, completely, and desperately in love. </p><p> </p><p>~</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">A nagging in Mike's mind tells him he should run for the door and never return. Change his name, his identity, move to some obscure part of Europe and start a new life; but the part that matters has him shovelling washing powder over Nicky's dirtied clothes, and washing Nicky's dirtied dishes. He keeps working and working, if he stops it all might catch up with him. He scrubs at a plate, red hot and angry for God knows what reason. It cracks under his grip, nicking his finger. He keeps scrubbing, despite the blood, and when he feels pressure behind his eyes he only scrubs harder.</p><p class="p2"><em>'Stop it, stop it, please stop' </em>he begs himself over and over in his head, blinking away the tears that have welled despite his please. He drops the plate into the sink, stepping away from it, breathing in what almost feels like hiccups; pressing his palms hard against his eyes and willing the tears to stop. He presses down hard, even slaps himself, <em>'toughen up, be a man, stand tall.' </em>his fathers voice in his head. The lump in his throat the size of a tennis ball, choking him. He can't swallow, can't breath, can hardly even think. </p><p class="p2">"stop fucking crying!" he chokes, tugging at his hair, holding his breath, blood rushing to his brain. </p><p class="p2">He hears a small cough behind him.</p><p class="p2">He rests his hands on the sink, steadying himself; coming back to earth before turning his head. Nick is standing in the living room, holding his plate of food. </p><p class="p2">"I thought we could eat together?" He says. Mike swears some colour has returned to Nicky's cheeks. </p><p class="p2">Mike sniffs, and Nicky smiles. Only faint, but there none the less. Mike mirrors it, wipes at his eyes, and reaches for his bowl.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">~</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">The next morning, Mike returns from his hunt to Nicky sat at the table. Very little had been said over dinner. They'd shared quick glances, neither wanting to speak first. Mike hadn't slept, no remedy for the lump still present in his throat. Nicky looks up at him, and Mike goes cold. Sat on the table in front of Nicky's shaking hand, is a revolver. </p><p class="p2">"Nick... what's going on?" Mike moves slowly, terrified. </p><p class="p2">"I wanna show you something Mike. It's ok, sit down." Nicky's voice is calm. uncomfortably so. Mike sits, unable to stand any longer with his spinning head. He holds his hands out in front of him. </p><p class="p2">"You're scaring me Nick."</p><p class="p2">"You don't need to be scared." Nicky reaches forward, resting his hand over the gun.</p><p class="p2">"Hey, hey, HEY! NICKY! stop please, stop this you're scaring the shit out of me." Mike grabs desperately at Nicky's wrist, his own hands shaking. </p><p class="p2">"It's ok Mike. Let go of my wrist." </p><p class="p2">"Please don't. Nicky... Please." He can hardly beg, hardly speak. The gun is fully loaded, no chances, only one outcome. He feels sick, sick like he's dying, sweat building on his brow. Nicky gently takes Mike's hand, and releases his grip. Mike's back in Nam, back in the bar, Nicky's about to hold the gun to his head, about to die in his arms.</p><p class="p2">Nicky takes hold of the gun, and brings it up in front of him, pointed away from the both of them. It's silent for a moment, and Mike sees finally, that Nicky's hand is still. The tremor gone, gun held confidently in his hand. Mike laughs without any clue why, he swears a tear spills from his right eye, staring at Nicky in bewilderment. </p><p class="p2">"What are you doing Nick?" </p><p class="p2">Nicky holds the gun out to his side, arm straight, aimed at the wall. And with a glance at Mike, he fires. Mike jumps in his seat, hands held over his head. It rings in his ears, like an alarm, and Mike finds that he can't move for what feels like hours. As if shocked out of his skin, he lunges forward, snatching the gun from out of Nicky's grip, careful not to accidentally fire it himself. </p><p class="p2">"What the fuck are you doing Nick?! Is this supposed to be fucking funny? Is it a joke? cause it's not funny! I feel fucking sick Jesus CHRIST Nick. Why? WHY? What the fuck was the point of all that, just to fuck with me?" Mike's throat hurts. He doesn't yell, not often, but he can't help it now. Nicky shifts slightly in his seat across from him. Mike is sure he's gone mad, that none of this is real, perhaps Nicky died back in Nam and this has all been in his head. Anything would make more sense than this. Nicky reaches over, Mike flinches away. </p><p class="p2">"I'm sorry Mike... Just... Listen to me." </p><p class="p2">"No, NO! Fuck you Nick! You can't do that to me! Why the fuck would you do that." Mike squeezes his eyes closed, his heart thudding like a drum beat against his chest. He's going to pass out, fall out of his chair and hit his head, and then he'll die and thank God for that. Finally some peace. He's thinking it over when he feels a hand rest softly on his cheek. He opens his eyes, looking down to where Nick is knelt at his side, looking up at him with big eyes. Against his own will, Mike's hand reaches up to cover Nick's.</p><p class="p2">"It's ok Mike." He says. </p><p class="p2">"Don't comfort me. Just tell me what's going on Nicky." Mike flinches as Nicky moves. Goes to stop him as Nicky reaches for the gun again. But Nicky's eyes lock with his, with a confidence, and Mike finds himself lost in it. Frozen. </p><p class="p2">"Trust me Mike. Just trust me please." Nicky takes the gun, and gently places it into Mikes hand. "Hold it tight." He says, and Mike obeys. Gripping onto the gun, his hand still shaking. "Hold it out in front of you." Mike does, and Nicky's hands softly follow, guiding him. </p><p class="p2">"I trust you." Mike whispers. "But I don't think I should." </p><p class="p2">"It's ok." Nicky repeats. Nicky stands, and Mike stands with him. They're closer, closer than they have been in a long time. Nicky's chest against his. Their heartbeats shared. Their arms together, gun outstretched. Nicky turns his head, facing Mike, and Mike feels his hot breath against his mouth. </p><p class="p2">"Shoot the wall" Nicky says.</p><p class="p2">Mike shoots, and his hand stops shaking. </p><p class="p2">He lets out a breath he's sure he'd been holding for minutes. Nicky's stepped away from him, and Mike shoots again. It's a release. He feels the fear leave him with the bullet, his muscles relaxing. He lowers his arm, and drops the gun beside him, no strength left in his body. </p><p class="p2">"Nick... There's something really wrong with us."</p><p class="p2">Nicky laughs, and Mike can't help but cherish the sound. "I know... It's ok."</p><p class="p2">Mike looks at Nick, and Nicky looks at Mike. They're silent, but it's comfortable, and when Mike smiles Nick smiles, and they're home. Home in their cottage on their mountain, and Mike isn't scared anymore. </p><p class="p2">"I'm gonna take a bath." Nicky says, clearing the air. Mike's stuck, standing silently in his place.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">~</p><p class="p2"> </p><p>It’s silent, other than the sound of running water. Mike, unable to muster up the strength to move just yet feels the steam cloud out of the bathroom door. The sound of the faucet turning, and the water stops running. The slosh of water, Nicky’s getting in the bath, a splash as some spills onto the floor. He's not going to clean it, Nicky can do that.</p><p>Finally, Mike moves, craning his Neck to look over to the bathroom. Nicky’s left the door wide open.</p><p> </p><p>He's not sure why he's at the sink. He's getting Nicky a glass of water, one that Nicky did not ask for, but he's not sure why. He's walking towards the bathroom. Why? He's not sure just yet, and he's no more sure when he enters through the open door.</p><p>Nicky’s laid out, elegant in the water. He isn’t effeminate, maybe slightly in his features, he’d always thought him rather doe eyed, but his body is a man’s by no mistake. Harsh lines, wide shoulders, chest sprinkled with light hairs, yet he’s like draped silk in the water. His eye’s hooded, looking up at Mike, chin resting softly on his arm, fingers relaxed on the edge of the bathtub. He's turned towards him, hip slightly above the water, legs pulled in, back slightly arched. It isn’t intentionally flirtatious, it’s nothing to Nicky, Mike has seen him naked countless times, but Nicky can’t see the cogs turning inside of Mike, an invisible hand trying it’s best to pull him away. This isn’t good, it isn’t decent. Something churns in Mike’s gut, and he swears he feels the hair on his arm’s rising. He lets out a stuttered breath, shifting where he stands. </p><p>"I brought you water" he says, with the tone of a lost young boy.</p><p>Nicky reaches out an arm, and the switch inside Mike flicks.</p><p>He discards the glass into the sink, and kneels next to the tub. Nicky moves, and the water moves with him. Mike will's himself not to glance him over. </p><p>“Don’t say anything… Unless… Unless you want me to stop just –“</p><p>With bated breath, he hovers his hand over Nicky's chest. Nicky is silent, but vocal in his eyes, locked with Mike's, asking him gently to keep going. He trails his hand down Nicky's torso by the tips of his fingers. Over his chest, he flattens his palm against skin, fingers brushing lightly across his nipple, and Nicky shudders, a shiver running up Mike's arm, that slips further down, into the water, resting softly about his hip, the touch barely there. Mike falls into pale skin and light eyes, but when he looks up at Nicky, his gaze is washed in confusion and strained fear, fear that has returned to Mike to claw at his skin and beg him to stop. Nicky's fear stares at him with cold eyes, and panic floods through Mike. He moves his hand away, terrified that Nicky will leave him and never return.</p><p>"I'm sorry... Nicky I'm... I don't know what's..." He stops as Nicky's hand closes around his wrist.</p><p>"No... Don't" Nicky guides his hand, moving it back into the water. "Please." His voice cracks, and in one short word Nicky is begging. </p><p>The bathroom floor is hard and cold against Mike's knee's as he moves forward, only taking a moment to catch a lost breath, before his lips meet softly with Nicky's. It's barely there, little more than shared breath, until Nicky opens his mouth inviting, and Mike brings a hand to the back of his Neck. Years of yearning melts into unspoken words shared between the two mouths. It's warm. Slow and deep and wet. The guilt, forbidden aching, the desperation to feel and taste him, all burns hot like a fire in Mike's chest, doing nothing more than fuelling his need to feel and taste more, his tongue meeting with Nicky's as Mike grips at his frail frame, pulling him up towards him, Nicky's chest damp against his own. As he stops for breath, he nuzzles his face into Nicky's Neck, and Nicky lets out a soft moan. Mike's hand returns into the water, moving with more confidence now. He takes Nicky in his hand and watches as his mouth falls open, a groan escaping, vibrating in his chest. Nicky's hips buck up, and Mike kisses across his cheeks, his neck, his jaw, his lips. A warm curl in Mikes gut roars as he feels himself growing harder and harder. Mike begins to move his hand slowly, and Nicky spreads his legs, bringing them up towards his chest. Mike kisses him again and again, desperate to feel Nicky's groans against his lips, as he jerks him faster. </p><p>"Is this what you want huh? This what you want? been wanting you for so long Nicky you have no idea. Wanted you so bad." He speaks softly against his mouth, his shame at the tip of his tongue. Nicky's moving frenzied in the water now, gripping onto the sides of the tub with white knuckles. Water spills onto the bathroom floor, pooling around Mike's feet. </p><p>"Please... Please Mike." Nicky's wanton please, the short little moans he lets out... It's making Mike go crazy, wanting so desperately to touch himself. </p><p>"You have any idea how crazy you make me, how crazy you've always made me? You have any idea? God Nicky."</p><p>The rhythm of his strokes is sloppy, erratic, Nicky's looking up at him half lidded, eyes trained on his. He rests his forehead against Nicky's, and Nicky takes grip of his hair, whimpering desperately. He's so lost in the feel of it he barely understands what Nicky is whispering to him, in between gasps. "Want you inside me Mike... Want you to fuck my mouth, wanna know how you taste-" Nicky cuts himself off with a choked groan, grip in Mike's hair tightening, body frigid. He arches up, above the water, and within a few strokes he's cumming over Mike's hand. </p><p> </p><p>Nicky's falling back into the bath, chest heaving, and Mike finds himself feeling sick again. </p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">"It's ok Mike." Nicky murmurs. Over and over again. until Mike thinks that maybe, it's true. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
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